Consent of the Bourbon Persuasion
by madame.alexandra
Summary: There was a certain element of "bastard" in partaking of hot sex when she was completely drunk, but he wasn't enough of a gentleman to take the gallant high road of abstinance. Besides, she started it. She and the bourbon. JIBBs, smut, no plot necessary.


_A/N: Smut, quite literally, for the sake of smut. _

_For GeekLoveFan, to perk her up, because she gave me a prompt and demanded I not skimp on the smut, setting into motion the direct effect of me instead skimping greatly on the plot and adding yet another story to the list of Reasons Why I'm Going to Hell. Care to join me? Read on._

_The Prompt: Instead of 'how many licks does it take to get to the center of a tootsie pop" how about "How many sips of Maker's Mark does it take for Jen to lose her inhibitions, press her lips to Jethro's and..." take it from there. I did take it from there. Liberally. _

* * *

It was a calm, normal Saturday night in the basement of Leroy Jethro Gibbs, an average night of boat sanding, bourbon drinking, and comfortable silence punctuated occasionally by a playful barb or murmured comments—no, wait. That is what it was _supposed_ to be.

That is why Jennifer Shepard ventured to the aforementioned basement.

What it was _not_ supposed to be was a less-than-sober, flirtatious, sexually charged night of passion on the basement floor, yet somehow—and she really, _really_ doesn't remember how—that is what it became. Perhaps because of Spring Fever; maybe because she was tired of beating around the bush with him; hell, it could have been a secret desire to act like a reckless slut. The point is it happened.

And it was much less than regrettable.

She had taken it upon herself to grace him with her presence and an unopened, sealed-with-red-wax, perfectly aged bottle of classic Kentucky-brewed Maker's Mark bourbon. Little had she known, he was just busting open a bottle of the same—a gift, it seemed, from their mutual FBI friend—and she proceeded to conclude neither bottle could be wasted.

Thus here she sat, her hair let down, the collar of her pristine oxford blouse undone lightly more than three buttons, and her Ralph Lauren skirt riding up her thighs as she leaned against his boat, relaxed and more than a little loose, sanding and hammering abandoned.

He watched her with clear, sharp blue eyes, the copious amounts of alcohol hardly affecting his tough constitution, and she slowly spiraled into intoxication, her eyes brightening fetchingly with every sip. He was beginning to think the more bourbon he poured, the higher her skirt slipped up her gorgeous legs, and he was perfectly willing to facilitate that.

"How many is it gonna take, Jen?" he drawled casually, taking in her appearance and flicking his eyes over her appreciatively. He was no stranger to her in this state, nor did he shirk from the responsibility of handling her in it.

She arched a perfect, dark eyebrow at him and took another shot from a bourbon-filled mason jar, cutting her eyes at him demurely.

"How many of what to achieve what, Jethro?" she asked innocently. "Licks to get to the center of a tootsie pop?"

He smirked slightly, amused by the things that came out of her mouth when she was inebriated.

He held up the half-empty bottle of trusty Maker's Mark lazily and drew her eyes to it.

"How many shots of bourbon to get you to take your clothes off," he said bluntly, managing to keep a straight face.

She laughed lightly, giving him a sharp, playful look. She nodded her head shortly at the bottle he held.

"The rest of the bottle," she threw at him sarcastically. Quick as a flash, he placed it on the floor and slid it to her. She lifted her brows, inclined her head to him thankfully, and poured a dash more into her jar. "…and then some," she added airily, lifting it to her lips with a teasing smile.

He snorted derisively. He lifted his own jar to his lips, watching her from the position opposite, his back against the counter, legs stretched out in front of him, next to hers, but not daring to touch her.

Jenny arched her back, stretching comfortably, and pushed her hand through her hair, letting it fall messily over her shoulders. Her skirt inched up higher, her blouse pulled from the waist of it, exposing a strip of creamy white skin.

"Tease," he growled at her mildly, aiming to provoke her.

She cut her eyes to him, flashed them as if she'd been challenged, and the stunning emeralds darkened like gems set next to a white-hot flame. The look hit straight in the groin and he shifted, drawing one of his legs up and resting his arm over it.

She parted her lips in a pout.

"You really wanna play that game, Jethro?" she asked languidly, tilting her head slightly. He didn't, no, no he didn't. He hated that game. He occasionally liked playing with fire, though, and Jenny personified fire.

"You started it," he said pointedly, pronouncing every syllable.

She smiled wickedly. She tossed back the remaining bourbon in her jar and shifted to her knees with the grace of a cat, reaching around behind her with a dangerous glint in her eye. He tried to look at her face like he could care less, but when her skirt hit the floor his eyes fell, drinking in the sight of delicate black lace panties peeking out from the half-unbuttoned, crisp green oxford.

On her hands and knees, she crawled towards him. He swallowed hard, casting his eyes down her shirt to her cleavage as she prowled over his legs, his pulse running a marathon beneath his skin. He made to take a steadying drink of bourbon but she took it gently, set it above him on the counter, and knelt over his lap with her thighs pressed against his, her hair falling over her shoulders, her hands gripping the counter, looking down at him lasciviously.

"What're you doing, Jen?" he drawled boredly, attempting to alert her to what was about to happen with his tone of voice. He should allow her the opportunity to say no before he shamelessly took advantage of her.

"Propositioning you," she replied sultrily, the words pulled from low in her throat.

He reached out and curved his hands around her slim waist, grasping her oxford and pressing his hands against her to feel warm skin through the starched material.

"You're wasted," he growled.

She smirked.

"You think you're sober?" she lashed back knowingly. She lowered her head, her lips brushing temptingly against his, just shy of kissing him. He gripped her waist and pulled her down on him firmly, abolishing the hovering nonsense. "I take that as consent, Jethro," she said huskily.

"You're too drunk to consent," he ground out.

She already had her lips hard against his when she retorted with a smirk, forcing his head back against the wooden base of the counter with the urgency of her mouth. He couldn't help the groan that escaped him at the contact; he was willing at her fingertips when she probed his lips with her tongue and then kissed him like she was going down, and everything below his belt tightened.

There was a certain element of "bastard" in partaking of this when she was completely drunk and uninhibited, but he wasn't enough of a gentleman to take the gallant high road of abstinance. Not when he had her oxford shucked off her shoulders and her hot, smooth skin for the taking.

She placed her petite hands on the sides of his neck, pressuring her fingertips into sensitive nerves, stroking his skin until he gave a low growl through his teeth and made her smile impishly and replace on hand with her mouth, biting and licking with just the right amount of roughness.

He ran his hands over her thighs briefly, brushing his thumbs brazenly between her legs over his lap, touching them both just enough to spark the passion a little more, and when she gasped quietly he snaked his hands around her back and pulled her shoulders back, drawing black lace bra straps down her shoulders.

She laughed softly, almost mocking, and her breath rushed against his ear, sending chills down his spine.

"Too much bourbon to conquer a little lingerie?" she purred, biting gently on his ear and slipping her hand slowly down his chest, pricking her nails into his torso through his shirt.

Proving her wrong, and showing off just a little, he lowered a hand without a word and flicked his index finger and thumb lazily over the hooks on her bra, unsnapping it loose and tossing it carelessly away.

She fumbled with the hem of his shirt but he pushed her hands away, running his own up to her shoulders and his casting her eyes over her brazenly. She shifted on his lap, grinding against him, too hard for comfort and too gentle to satisfy.

He placed his hand tightly on the back of her neck and pulled her towards him, her naked torso fitting against his cotton t-shirt perfectly. Glaring sharply into her vixen eyes, he wormed his hand between them and cupped her breast in a firm hand, watching the desire cloud her eyes and the breath leave her lips.

He kneaded in the way he knew she wanted it, and brushed his thumb over her nipple. Her lashes fluttered and she leaned into him, seeking something more, moaning softly in his ear. He wanted to hear her _loud_; he pulled her shoulder back firmly again and replaced his thumb with his mouth. She gripped her hands in his hair, twisting in his arms. He peppered her with kisses to her shoulders and between her breasts, returning his hands to her thighs. He let her take his shirt off and pulled her thighs to him harder, aching to feel her.

She breathed in deeply and glued herself to him, breasts pressing into his bare chest, mouth draining the oxygen from his lungs and then some. She tasted like Maker's Mark and peppermint, and she smelled like expensive perfume and strawberry shampoo.

Jenny shoved her tongue in Jethro's mouth, desperate to taste every inch of him and leave him choking for breath. She felt loose and dizzy and she wanted him inside her, _now_, but she held back and drew it out, because the chances that she'd be this drunk and uninhibited in the future (and thus able to enjoy shameless sex) were almost zero.

She tightened her fingers in his hair when he moved aside the bothersome fragile lace of her panties and slipped a finger inside her, moving his tongue in her mouth like he moved his finger. He pressed hard and gentle, thrust another finger in, cupped his hand against her, and she moaned against his lips, rocking her hips against his hand; she cried out in frustration when his hand froze, just shy of the grand finale.

"Don't stop," she hissed, breathless, her wet lips brushing the corner of his mouth. She bit her lip and ground her hips against him, desperate to force his hand, eviscerating half his self-control when her warmth pressed into his confined erection.

He groaned, gritting his teeth, and she squealed and gasped in surprise because he suddenly had her on her back on the cold concrete floor and she was dizzy, and he knelt between her legs, running a greedy hand over her bare leg. He lifted one and removed her shoe, treated the other to the same service, and pressed his mouth to her knee, moving higher.

She braced her other foot against his shoulder, a loud moan escaping her lips as he moved higher. She thrust a hand back through her hair, arching her back, and he knew it was just too damn easy. He flicked his tongue out experimentally and she shivered, and then all it took was a kiss to finish what his hand had started and she curled her foot around his neck with a gasp and a shudder, unraveling for him.

"God, yes," she mumbled. "God, _yes_."

He smirked, brushing his lips soothingly over her navel, and then he snapped off his belt, leaving it to join her scattered clothing, and her hands were shaking as she leaned up on her elbows and reached out to oblige him, defeating his zipper and button in one go. She jerked his boxers and jeans down and he did the rest, kicking them aside.

She tilted her head back and he watched the movement of her beautiful neck as she swallowed shakily. He cupped her neck in his hand as he moved over her, forcing her to look up at him. He kissed her hard, still tasting the arousal in her lips, acutely aware she hadn't recovered yet. She pressed her hand to his chest, gripping as best she could, curling her fingers into the hair she found.

The basement floor was cold and hard against her back. He fought a hand over her shoulder and pressed his palm against the concrete, grasping her ribs with his free hand. The floor didn't do much for his knees, either, when he trapped Jenny's hips between them, and she didn't do much for his sanity when she bucked her hips.

He gripped her waist tightly, to bruise and to mark, and buried himself in her warmth, biting back a shout at the feel of her, wet and tight around him. Jenny moaned and threw her head back and his wrist, weak, hit the floor cradling her head, cushioning the blow.

If he wasn't wasted before, he was beyond so now.

He drew in a sharp breath and pulled back, thrusting back in harder this time, watching her eyes slide closed and her lips redden as she bit down hard, muffling a cry behind her swollen lips. Jenny wrapped a leg around his waist, digging her heel into his back, and with a grace and flexibility he'd always appreciated, she pressed the other against his shoulder, her slick, sweaty skin sliding over his perfectly.

Whatever blood was left above his waist pounded in his ears as he moved inside her, gritting his teeth to make it last. He ran his hand up her leg, tightening it around her knee and pressing his lips to her calf briefly. Mumbled words spilled from her lips and she arched her hips into him tightly, her muscles clenching around him tightly. Her nails scraped the concrete and she gave him a scream, moaning as her orgasm shuddered through her. He gave up the fight and drew it out for her in the meantime, thrusting harder and deeper through his own release and groaning her name as he came.

He collapsed next to her on the hard floor, the soft moan she gave as he slipped out of her ringing down his spine like a final electric shock. He closed his eyes, his breathing harsh, sliding his and over her fevered skin and pulling her closer to him blindly.

He felt more than saw her wince, sore as she was dragged over the concrete towards him, and she rolled onto her side, pushing him to his back and cuddling close to him. She smelled good, like she always did after sex, except he could smell the bourbon on her as she tried to catch her breath and he laughed, deep in his chest.

She groaned, all frustration and exhaustion, running a hand through her hair and over her face.

"How many _did_ it take, Jen?" he growled hoarsely, turning towards her and grabbing her face in his hand. He kissed her hard and she kissed him back, like she needed to taste him again. Her eyes opened and he pulled back, brushing his lips against her jaw. He really did care about her.

Her brow furrowed and she narrowed her eyes. He ran his hand down her back, pressing firmly against her spine and pulled her thigh close to him. She sighed and moaned softly, resting her head on his arm.

"_Damn_ that was good," she said huskily, her throaty voice stirring his lower stomach again.

He smirked. She groaned again in irritation, her green eyes flashing as she glared at him through thick lashes.

"Yeah, Jenny, so what's the problem?" he asked arrogantly, pressing the backs of his fingers to her cheek.

"I'm not going to remember a fucking thing in the morning," she whimpered, shoving her forehead into his chest.

He shifted and dragged her on top of him roughly, slipping his hands up through her tangled hair and framing her face with his hands. He brushed a thumb over her lips and smirked arrogantly. She arched an eyebrow at him.

"Oh yes you will," he growled, his cobalt eyes cocky and aroused.

He was confident enough that all the damn good Maker's Mark in the world couldn't keep her from remembering it when they made love like _that_.

* * *

_As I told Holly: Take two capsules of penance and call the Pope in the morning.  
-Alexandra_


End file.
